Long Spread over Poems
Long Spread over Poems. Below are the most popular long Spread over by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spread over poems by poem length and keyword.
Through the piercing silence of the night
Echoes the soul grasping sound
Of the ethereal howling of a pack of wolves
Their song is carried across the air
Over the tree tops to a place of forever
The full moon glows an aura of wonderment
Wolves wail to this celestial body in honor of it
Metaphorically, they are attempting to connect
With ideas that lie dormant in the subconscious
Just below the surface
Like undisturbed stones that nestle comfortably
In the sand upon the apex of a smooth flowing river
Always there but obstructed from view
What secrets reside within us
Waiting to be discovered?
For it is in sleep the unconscious whispers to us,
Shall we lie quietly and listen?
If you don’t cross the bridge
You will never know what’s on the other side
So, if we were not meant to eat
There would be no hunger
Therefore the subconscious must serve a purpose
Who says that logic is the only reality?
I have awakened, to feast my eyes
Upon a gigantic sphinx
Silently it observes me and smirks
A sly, cunning smile masking
Its many mysteries and knowledge
What secrets will be revealed
To me on this night if I listen?
A vast bonfire blazes, and as it cackles
The flames reach above to the star filled sky
Surrounded by spectators, I see a fox, and a coyote
As a glimmering golden hawk accompanied by
A mystical red phoenix encircle the sight, uttering
Words of wisdom, which spread over the ocean of
Canyons creating an echo in which the mountains
Respond in unison, surely there is a message here
Each brilliant star suddenly transposes itself into lines
Of letters, I gaze in awe at the wondrous words
Glittering like silver beads stretching the expanse of
The universe, all unfamiliar, yet tantalizing, languages
From ages ago, no longer spoken, however readily co-existing
Along side modern speech and thought, what may I learn
If I were to study these ancient gems of communication?
Therefore,
I am ready to fly with the essence of the night
Begin a quest into another realm
Of human awareness
Seeking out words and ideas
To bring back
For it is here that thoughts originate
A journey into the other side of myself
Where logic has no relevance
And imagination has no limitations
As the pirate who prepares to unearth
A buried treasure
Okay kill the lights
Close your eyes
Prepare for take-off
The train, halted under the shade of sacred hill
They flowed out, and, wandered here and there
holding big, small, colorful, old and new packs of belongings
To, find comfortable chests and knees
some carelessly slept on un-desiring places,
but many there stood still
to face the misty, white clouded sky beyond the ridge,
Perceived their feet had reached
the starting point of adventurous tramp
Men, women, young and old with little ones
crept forward Just like a bunchy row of ants
filled with amazement; some stood, and watched
the vivid green forest canopy and flowering ferns
swinging in the frosty breeze!!
The minds filled with compassion, harmony
and respect each other
By murmurous chanting, that oozed into their veins
in the morning twilight
Tenderness of beams brighten the white dresses
of devotees
Time passed slowly
And the far valley down, a string of people moving upwards
on the zigzagged narrow path
Surrounded by thick green vegetation which
being the habitat of bees, birds, butterflies and
variety of big and small animals
Oozy willows dropping pearl like cold water drops
But few of moving people put a glance
at the phenomenon!
What a peregrination, having a cool gust thrill
which each body and its soul begird
The strenuous walk will bring to a halt at the noble foot print
Some managed to reach the desired end
but some could not attain the will
they stopped hopelessly, stepped down
with forsaken aspiration
those who topped the hill, huddle together
engaged customary rituals,
The eco of the ringing bell spread over the chilled atmosphere
through hill tops, forest, and the moving folks
Excitement broke out
Devotees squeezed catch a glimpse of sunshine!
The sun appeared slowly with a trembling smile
through the glistening horizon
Sunshine! Miraculously radiated across the mountain range,
forest canopy and everything
open to tender beams of light
What a huge strength,
Noble hopes and wishes
fulfilled the pilgrimage!
J.Weerakkody
(This poem is about pilgrims who climb the summit of breezy sacred mountain of Sripada, the holy mountain of Sri Lanka, where suppose to be emblematized the footprint of Lord Buddha. After worshiping the sacred footprints the devotees anxiously watch the panoramic maiden sun rise over the sacred mountain. The poem is vividly realized descriptions of nature.)
Beneath the frozen dome of a late December, I learned with melancholy
That those who gave me wings are not the titans I summoned in my childhood dreams,
But two earthlings, stirring my dreams into an aura, breathing whims of ice and smoke into the cauldron of my being.
And in that harsh month of ice, when my soul huddled beneath the timid dawns,
The mug of hot chocolate by my bed becomes a herald, laden with unspoken words,
The warmth of a mother saying without words how much you need to warm yourself at life's bosom,
And I, unknowingly trampling over gifts with ignorance, with a silent longing buried in routine.
Oh, how I wish I had known how to unravel the thread of love, for it is an art crushed by the weight of the earth,
It struggled through dungeons of misunderstandings, attempted, I understand now, to tear down the cold walls between us,
I would like to take back the harsh words, the disputes that scratched the delicate veil of our connection,
But I was only a dandelion in the wind's path, a child who did not understand that this play is most earnest.
And as I step towards the dawn of a new phase, at last aware,
I realize there are no castles without shadows, that each family is a legacy of forgiveness and forgetting,
Love, an ancient coin that we are still learning to pay the right price for, it starves us and sometimes satiates,
And now, I see that it, always trying to mend what we have torn, still extends the thread back to me.
I would have liked to have been more whole, to have answered the call of her heart with honesty, without denial,
But reality knocked me down with fragments of walls, and I remained there, a child with the world on his shoulders,
Stripped of excuses and pretexts, with an open heart to the truth - all that have made us what we are today.
When I retreat into the hearth of the night, I find the blanket spread over me, hiding my fleshly embarrassments,
And when I look up at the sky, maybe I erred, but in the infinite blue I understand that it is never too late,
Life without those pawns who ignited the spark in the archers on the chessboard is inconceivable to me,
And no matter how fate weaves and unravels, everything started with them,
And an overwhelming sense holds me, that it will all end with them too.
There is a place i used to go
a place i longed to be
i remember it like yesterday
and hold it dear to me
it is my young thinking tree
when i mustered the courage
to give climbing a try
my Dad boosted me upwards
and i felt like i could fly
it is my early-start thinking tree
when i was still a child i would
explore the top to the best of my ability
pretending to be Indiana Jones
and sparked by curiousity
it is my adventurous thinking tree
but it earned its worthy name
by the long hours i'd spend
just sitting and pondering
as assurance it would lend
it is my motherly thinking tree
in later life stages
of trouble and resent
my tree would embrace me
in loving branches of consent
it is my protective thinking tree
or i would recall life's simple joys
remaining there all day
and also its misfortunes
hoping forever there i could stay
it is my day-dream thinking tree
when time came to leave the house
one fateful summers night
i passed an hour in that tree
then finally bid it good- bye
it is my dear friend thinking tree
often i'd return
home to find it there
and in joyful amazement
i'd gaze at it and stare
it is my memorable thinking tree
my chest would pound
my heart, skip a beat
smiling at its inviting colors
sending tingles to my feet
it is my wild, impulsive thinking tree
but after seasons faded
many a time over again
my tree grew old and ill
its sickness, i could not mend
it is my weathered thinking tree
and upon that dreaded day
when my tree, dead it lied
part of my childhood taken away
when with it, my heart died
it is my sorrowful thinking tree
long years passed
until the end did rise
my time had come
as the light leapt from my eyes
and as i traveled through sky
to heaven i was bound
something caught my attention
i couldn't believe what i had found
my thinking tree alive as ever
my good and faithful friend
hoping for my company
and waiting until then
as i grasped it tenderly
and flung into its arms
salvations light spread over me
home was finally where my heart was
but this was not the end
there is yet more glee to the story
for my tree no longer had room for only one
but now seated many to share in my glory
it is OUR timeless, life-giving thinking tree
In the quiet whispers of dreams,
I dance with shadow's ebonescence,
as photonic particle - collider,
photosynthesis derider,
unveiling entities,
of "agents provocateur" to seize a "visitation"
upon the dimensions precipice
per chance to lay siege.
In the depths of "our present darkness",
petra-charred and invisible against the oiled skin
of night.
Chameleon sins-
spiders its neural network
across the fruited plains,
trading insiders
like it was the New York Stock Exchange.
Black domes in the rock of jig altar,
to sire getaway mountain dens and tunnels
for BlackRock Pfizer Op -Executions.
Their golden boy, will spotlight meteoric,
the proverbial fly in the ointment,
Act III lift of a-weighted curtain-lifting back wings,
showing a defyning eye and marionette strings.
Les Miserables-play on words-play on heartstring phantoming our opera, staged in
Anti-Christian cryptonite.
History channeled redirect
rhetoric dialect of reflected subject to chain,
and the death of fiat currency,
just a coincidental theme?
Freedom is a currency isn't it,
a Hallmark card from the Corporation
to the People- to read,
between the lines of allegiance-
swearing till blue in the face,
alliance against malfee-seance in press release
of 3 letter agency.
As Apollyon waltzes in from the bottomless pit.
Social credit scored to fit the bill.
Cloaked in fine Kingly robes of industry.
fact checked by the Ministry of Information.
When will love speak it's instinctual dialect
in a neon sign language not lost in translation?
When will hope weave it's august majesty,
Seraphic-wings spread over as a covering tapestry.
In cure of a cerulean sky with
hope diamonds of open transparency,
lifting us in perpetuity.
Till that day,
with each intrepid step, a nightmare before Lent
their Black Christmas unfolds
a returning echo on the steppes,
etched in our collective brains like petrified mold.
In an apology of words,
emotions coagulate churns sour worm meal,
acidic curdling of my stomach, a larvaeic curd-
cysted curse to the soylent green new deal
of New World sufferings
and pain, of UnitedNationsBurntOfferings,
with a disdain for comic relief
or cosmic entymology.
It stood magnificently in front of our Churchyard,
Like the sacred fig tree before any temple-yard;
My going to church, as a boy, had no other reason,
Than picking all bird-dropped fruits, as a mission;
Collecting as many as possible hastily,
Pushing them into my knickers-pocket quietly;
Thinking of them all through the Holy Mass,
Waiting for the priest to say the final grace;
Hurrying to a corner where no humans see,
Place, as lonely as the very loneliness could be;
Savouring the sour-sweet taste spread over it,
Then breaking it with stones to get the nuts in it;
Quantity of it equaled as little as a butter drip,
Or as much as ten mustard seeds put as a strip;
Relishing it as though nectar of ancient sages,
Coming down to mine tongue from all the ages;
In youth tastes changed and matters mattered,
And this almond became very old fashioned;
Burgers, Pizzas, hotdogs and all tasted well,
Though, consuming them, I often was unwell;
I saw boys and girls picking almonds as I did,
And hurrying to corners and I understood;
The ‘grown-up’ in me prohibited me from doing so,
It’s hence I hid my child within, as a rainbow;
Abroad, I almost forgot the Indian almond tree,
As within me, I was bored and never really free;
I had my worries of marriage and children,
Who’d care for a tree with no monetary gain?
It’s when I went to my home town casually,
It’s under that tree I found my future lily;
We married and got children who grew,
Both with tastes so modern and new;
Yet, it’s when once we visited the churchyard,
My younger lingered over that fruit so thrilled;
We offered him sweet almonds from stores,
And supermarkets that made him to uproar;
He collected for long as much as he could,
And each little one he collected for him he hid;
He too, later, had his dreams and worries,
Sophistications seismically so seduce, seize;
Church now demolished and grounds cleared,
For newer one to construct all well renewed;
I found this almond tree got fully uprooted,
And thrown into a corner like an old harp muted;
I cried and cried till I could cover the tears,
As though I’d hidden my feelings for many years…
30 July 2021
Finding Your Muse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
The song of my love is heard
It travels over Seas and mountains
Bearing cadences that make the fishes dance
It frolics over hills and oceans
With rhythms that adorn the eyes of the sun
Sniffing the scented air that enflames the smouldering harmattan ash
Dancing with the guileless glee of a soul at ease
My love wakes
Glowing with the shimmers of sunrise
As it emerges with the pleasure of a shy bride
Rising in slow degrees from the east coast of India
Glimmering as the mirror of the stream flows with easy glide
Shining like the smiles of the unbridled sun as it beams with pride
Gliding with lazy grandeur like the procession of a Royal entourage
My love breathes
It inhales the sharp scent of burning wood
And savours the sweet smell of the lilacs that bloom
The breath of my love gives life to hyacinths
Shrunken and withered and makes them blossom anew
It is warm like the caress of wool on a night of chilly cuddle
It's journey down the spine generates shudders of flurry relish
My love sees
It stares with eyes that sparkle
Like the flash of lightening on a sultry night
Piercing the flesh as it comes in contact with the soul
The eyes of my love are sharp
Swifter than the swoop of an eagle on a chick guarded by the hen
It is strong like the hammer of Thor
And it makes mountains crash like an avalanche
It is hotter than the smite of the sun at its peak
And it melts the heart frozen like ice
My love grows
It feeds on smiles that clouds tears
Subsumed by the tapestry of the sun's golden gaze
It thrives on the rhapsody of gleesome hearts
Dancing as they laugh in unrestricted boisterousness
My love is a story
Told on nights of twilight beauty
As lasses blush before flames that smolder
And lads boast of valiant feats unachieved
It is that song sang as the arms of the wind spread over herbages
Clothing them with perfumes that issue from dancing hibiscuses
It is the hidden hymn of covenant
Sang beneath the lustrous peek of sleeping stars
When the transient sneer of the sun hide behind the moon's smile
I took a trip to Paris, France and of course I wanted to see all the attractions,
walk the boulevards, see the museums and art galleries, linger at an outdoor
cafe watching people stroll while sipping on wine and munching on cheese and
bread. I wanted to float down the Seine by boat at night. But my reason, for
this trip was to go to Le Pere Lachaise Cemetery, for that is where my family
ancestors are buried. I knew it would not be easy to find them as this cemetery
is huge, spread over 110 acres, over one million people buried there since 1804.
I walk the paths
lingering at mossy tombs:
a thousand birds sing
It is an amazing cemetery with many famous people buried there like Chopin,
Oscar Wilde, Monet, Voltaire, Degras and thousands more, but also ordinary
people. From simple unadorned headstones to huge towering monuments.
One needs a guide map to navigate the roads and pathways through this maze
of stone. I finally had to go to the office for direction and help to locate my
ancestors grave sites.
death has no time
for in my heart you exist
the smell of decay:
I found out some disturbing information, the plots are leased for 50, 30, 10
years and if not renewed the remains are removed, boxed and tagged and
moved to Aux Morts Assuary in a single tomb. When the Assuary gets over-
crowed the remains are removed, incinerated and the ashes returned.
And that is where my ancestors are, nothing but ashes in eternal storage. The
Aux Morts (To the Dead) Assuary is closed to the public, I found that very
odd and it made me quite sad. Why, what are they hiding?
And those plots where the remains were removed from are re-leased to others,
well that is how the cemetery can keep up on the burials, apparently there is a
long waiting list. I am happy my family plot is in a cemetery in Canada where
the remains of those buried will never be touched.
___________________
July 25, 2017
Haibun/Le Pere Lachaise Cemetery
Copyright Protected, ID 923378
Written for the Haibun Contest
Sponsor Debbie Guzzi
First Place
space, emptiness, devoid of contents;
He is there…ever knowing, all seeing, all powerful;
He…who is He?;
master, creator, judge, father;
omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent;
who was, who is, who will always be;
thoughts of creation;
swirling;
it begins;
He creates;
wind over water blows;
heavenly voice...light;
separation begins;
darkness and light creep away;
a new creation...day and night;
He creates;
boundaries of air;
the waters above and below separate;
dissension of the ranks...one higher, one lower;
separating water from water;
barrier of sky;
He creates;
moving, stirring, separating;
the waters divide;
dividing for a reason;
creating new life, creating space;
land;
plants of all kinds, grow and prosper;
seed shall be spread over all the lands that He has created;
land...created by Him;
He creates;
times of day, times of year;
identify with our surroundings;
finding our place in the universe;
seasons to designate time;
minutes to identify time;
things created to define time and space;
two masses...celestial bodies;
He creates two...sun and moon;
responsibility...govern day and night;
He creates;
fowl of air;
creatures of sea;
come forth at the beckon of He who created you;
heed His call;
obey His commands;
multiply and be fruitful;
populate this orb made by He who created you;
He creates;
beasts of the land come forth;
heed His call...the call of your creator;
arise...be fruitful and populate this creation;
He creates;
man;
in the image of Him it is formed;
man and woman in the image of Him;
created from dust, created from bone;
creation from creation;
proclaim..."You are to name the beasts, the fowl, the creatures, the plants;
name them all for that is your duty;
govern over land, sea, and air;
live in His creation;
protect His creation;
love His creation;"
Him on high sits, work finished;
glancing over all that was created;
observing each detail, each feature, each characteristic;
it is good;
this is His creation;
this is His world;
He is Creator;
rest.
Form:
*** Sketching the Ballerina ***
It is well, quite well after midnight.
My pup lies fagged on the blanket
as close to me as possible.
The young ballerina sits slightly slumped
On a bench across from the barre, still wearing
Her stage costume with its long net skirt.
I am vexed that the sleeping hour has come.
I grieve to leave her.
She was looking with her black eyes
Directly into my own, asking (as I’m asking myself),
“How can I leave her with a twisted foot?”
The enviable line of the ballerina’s foot, which
“En pointe”
Completes the geometry of the ballet:
Toes coursing the lines of the legs,
On diagonals or paralleling the arms
On through to a pointing fingertip,
With the addition of a superbly angled head.
I grieve having to leave my sketch, to keep
The pretty ballerina in a long-waiting lurch
With her foot twisted, against all her dancer’s instincts;
Against completion of her body line;
Against all her trained and now natural inclinations
Directed to set her preparation
For beginning any elegance in motion;
Add life to the already vibrant music;
Wear her training posture unto every finale’s curtsy
And well deserve the appluse that comes
Along with the roses tossed up
Around her perfect feet…
I simply must put the pencil down,
Wondering how soon before her
Tears might fall while she waits for her foot to be drawn
Correctly arched. The sketch’s error involves
Perhaps a sixteenth of an inch here and there
With the slightest touch of erasing…It’s
The additional light of day,
Which altogether should make a portrait worthy
Of showing to St. Peter as he stands by The Gate.
As she displays her weariness to me,
I must beg her pardon, for it’s now nearly
Three hours past midnight
And my pillow begs for the lay of my head.
My dismal skills must rest
And wait for my sketchpad
To be spread over with beams from
The window’s morning sun.
—————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 6/2023
Thanks be to God…